No Rest for the Guilty
by malcious lufoy
Summary: Sirius reflects on how broken his life has become. "He was damaged. They knew it. They denied it. They couldn't ever understand. No. Their minds couldn't work out, how he had to pick up bits and pieces, flashes of memory, and string them together incohera


No Rest For the Guilty  
  
By: malcious lufoy  
  
Note: Yes, I know it's been done before, Sirius remeniscing about Azkaban. But I tried to do it poetically. I really did! (And it's not going to be one of those it's all angsty now, but ends up being hopeful in the end, things, either)

If it seems a bit disjointed to you, well, that's just what I thought he would think like, after Azkaban. Everything is sort of..out of alignment, with him. So, if you don't like it, too bad for you!  
  
Please, please reveiw! (I'd say it's pretty obvious I'm begging, here). I'd really like to know what you think about this, so do tell!

* * *

Guilt. 

That was all he felt, every fucking day. Guilt. Guilt guilt guilt. It never ended, it never stopped. It came back to haunt him even as he tried to get rid of it. There would be no attonement, for him. He didn't even know what he would do with it once he got it. Twelve years, twelve years and the flooding of his senses with wracking pain and agony, the fucking weight of another's life, another's problems, and another's fucking pain, that seeped into him, all because of this guilt.

They all thought he was fine. Heh. Of course. It's so easy, once you're free, they told him. It's so easy, see? Now you can rebuild, now you can get your life back together. Now you can get over the pain. If he weren't forced to be polite lest they think him mad, he would have laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed, a parody of every thing of what a laugh should be. Oh, it was rich! How could he _rebuild_ when all this guilt was stopping him? Stunting him? How could he get his life back together, if he couldn't _fucking_ remember half of it anyways! How could he _get over_ the pain, when it was probably one of the only things left he could feel? Remember feeling?

He was damaged. They knew it. They denied it. They couldn't ever understand. No. Their minds couldn't work out, how he had to pick up bits and pieces, flashes of memory, and string them together incoherantly and call them his past. They couldn't understand, because they still had it all intact. They couldn't, can't understand how every event in his life was warped all out of proportion, how perception of every event had been so twisted, that his life had seemed worthless in the end. There were too many holes, and the pieces that he _could_ recall with clarity, were things he never wanted to think about again.

Always things that he remembered, causing too much pain. Yes, back with the apologies. Who fucking needed them to be said, anyways? He muttered them carelessly, wearily, because that's what he had seemed to be muttering all of his life. I'm sorry. Yes, Remus, I'm so fucking sorry that I nearly made you a murderer. I'm sorry that Snape had made your life a living hell after finding out. I'm so fucking sorry that you had to wear silver threaded manacles after that. Ha!

Yes, Harry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you don't have any parents. I'm sorry that I killed them. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you, when you saw one of your friends murdered before your eyes. I'm sorry that I can't ever be there for you, because it's all I can do to stop myself from stepping off a cliff.

And Snape! Yes, he had to include him. Always had to. Yes, Snape, I'm so sorry that I almost killed you, I'm sorry that I still don't feel any remorse for it. I'm sorry I made your life a living hell, and enjoyed it.

His life was full of apologies. It's always, I'm sorry. _I'm sorry_.

But he didn't care anymore. Oh, no. He couldn't. They were things he'd said too often, said so often their meaning was worn to a hair's fine edge. All he did was give himself papercuts, now. He was guilty. Guilty guilty guilty, of everything they said and did. Thier happiness was the sentance he'd endure, for the rest of his life. Their laughter stripping him down, wearing him out, and crushing his bones to fine meld. They'd carry on, and he'd be stuck here, in a mire that he couldn't get out of.

It's not your fault, they said, it's not your fault. Azkaban induced depression and pathological guilt are only temporary. You need to know, _it wasn't your fault_. Of course! It's all so simple. Slap a cause to it all, and write it off... Of _course_ it was his fucking fault! He _felt_ it, he felt it burning in his chest, every single day, burning burning, always burning. How could this be fake? How could this terrible, fucking weight, not be there, not be real, not be _his_ when he felt it dragging and choking at him with every breath? If it wasn't real, why was he feeling it? _Why_? Why was he feeling it, if it wasn't real? If it wasn't _his_ fault, why did he have to endure this pain, this hollow strange half-life that he called living? Why?

It was too much. Too much to share, too much to think about. That's why he never tried to be alone. Too much time alone, and he would get to thinking...and he'd stare. Stare at his wand, always wondering. Could I do it? Could I? Sometimes he'd point it to his temple, and wonder if he'd have courage enough to mutter, _Avada Kedavra_. He sit there, alone in his little hidey hole, and stare at it in the dark, the glossy wood, the light glinting on it's shiny surface, the oddly cool feel of it under his fingertips.

But he'd never be able to do it. Wasn't that hilarious? He could bravely fling himself into the midst of a Death Eater hord and take them all on, and not flich. But...this? This simple act...and he left so cowardly. Ha! Too ironic.

Snape found him once. He was standing in the hallway, after dinner in the Great hall. He'd left, not being able to take it anymore. Sitting there, joking with Remus and Harry laughing, and everyone bursting with conversation and little nonsensical things. Muttering, talking, murmmering.Telling secrets, sharing life. Giving up litte portions of themselves to others. He couldn't take it. So he left, and walked away. Away away, away, to think. He had stood there, staring into a random painting, caressing the straight, smooth lines of his wand, and wondering. Always wondering. And then...Black! He shouted. What are you doing here? Standing around like a waste of space...Oh, why nothing, Snape, I'm about to hex you into that wall, what do you think I'm doing? Black eyes bored into his with fury, and...curiosity? He turned away from that buring gaze, and stalked down the hall, trying hard not to wonder what it was Snape saw in his face.

Remus and Harry always looked at him. Their faces searching, worried. Of course. They knew something was off. Remus knew he wasn't the same. Harry knew something was still there, festering inside him. But they never knew quite what. Always there, to catch him- a strange look on his face. An odd, despondent comment or two. Little slips in a little conversation. Their concern cut him. Always. He felt too guilty to ever accept it. But he wanted to. Cut cut cut.

Snip snip snip. He wanted to sever their ties. His ties. It would have been eaiser on him if he did, but he didn't. Another punishment to add to the cause. Each time they looked at him, they wanted the old Sirius. The old Sirius who was happy and right and always bright and careless.

But he didn't even know if that Sirius existed. This current state was the only one he'd ever know. All other possibilites had been wiped from memory. All other notions rent from his brain.

He didn't know if he could recover. He didn't know if he wanted to. It was fitting, this punishment, that he who was once filled with everything right and good, who was mirthful and caused so much destruction, should be left with this cursed shattered life. It was fitting.

Oh yes! This guilt and this satisfaction in it's horrible pain and punishment, was all he had left to savor. That these bitter juices were the only ones he could squeeze from his life, was justified. It had to be, or else he really could go insane. Not that he didn't already know that he was.

That he was made a wreck, to stay a wreck, was fitting.

It was fitting.

End.


End file.
